Georgian Telephones
by theAkuRokuFaNaTiC
Summary: Telephones were simply irritating. Really, they were. They told of tragedies and they used to block the use of the Internet, and they rang too loudly at three o'clock on a Tuesday morning.But most especially, they gave the kind of news that the listening party was not quite yet ready to hear. UsUk. Mpreg. Human names used.


**A.N.: More Hetalia! I'm just in that sort of mood lately, I guess. Anyway, this is my best attempt at a UsUk at the moment, but I really love the idea. As you were warned in the summary, it does have Mpreg, but nothing too extreme, I guess. Ah, anyway, I hope you guys enjoy! I don't own Hetalia, but reviews would be most appreciated and loved!**

Telephones were simply irritating. Really, they were. They told of tragedies and they used to block the use of the Internet, and they rang too loudly at three o'clock on a Tuesday morning.

But most especially, they gave the kind of news that the listening party was not quite yet ready to hear.

The irritatingly chipper ring of the telephone sounded clearly throughout America's (and England's) large Georgian home. The dirty blond refused to even get up, knowing quite well that England would lift his head up and, realizing that the lazy person (Alfred) sleeping next to him was not going to answer the noise, go to answer the device. It was, perhaps, a bit manipulative on the America's part; but it was more an acknowledgment to the little quirks about England that made him so wonderful.

As Alfred suspected, he felt a shift in his bed; the mattress dipped down for a moment before rising a second later. The springs cried out in protest to the movement, and the American figured that he should simply bite the bullet and buy a Tempur-Pedic or Serta mattress; he should definitely do that, but he had owned his run-down box spring for far too long and had wrestled with it (and on it) far too many times to just call it quits now.

Alfred opened his eyes for a bit, taking in light blue walls and a spinning ceiling fan and a lamp owning a worn cord that was _this _close to sparking and causing a house fire. He should honestly get rid of the last thing, but again, he had owned it for far too long to pitch it.

If he strained his ears, America could hear Arthur's quiet, annoyed, sleep-muddled voice in the hallway; but differentiating words and sentences was nearly impossible. Alfred caught a "Hullo?" and marveled at how stereotypically British Arthur sounded when he was just too tired to bother.

There were some more mumbles, and Alfred considered falling back asleep; he soon decided against this, however, mostly because Arthur would be back in a few minutes, and the bed would groan with the added weight (and that was loud enough to wake America up). Instead, he adjusted himself to a near-sitting position, tuning his ears to hear the gist of Arthur's now-lengthy conversation. Alfred frowned. Late night telephone calls should _not _be this long.

A laugh. Arthur's, of course. It was a bit high-pitched and a lot confused, and Alfred prided himself on knowing the difference and tone, but this laugh in particular bothered the American. Arthur never laughed in this confused a way.

Reaching for his glasses that were positioned next to the lamp that could bring down the entire city of Atlanta (and frankly, Alfred didn't want a repeat of Sherman's March - he really should just toss it), the dirty blond sat more erect, hoping that the laugh was mostly caused by sleep deprivation.

A gasp from the hallway, and Alfred was to his feet and out of his bedroom door in seven seconds, not quite caring if he had disturbed the two cats lying on the edge of the bed, two cats who were completely unaware that there had even been a telephone call. Both felines glared at the back of America but chose to do nothing about the matter - they were too tired and not offended enough to act.

In the hallway was Arthur, and he didn't look hurt, nor did he look all that shaken up. He held the telephone receiver in his right hand but kept his left over the transmitter. "What are you doing?" he whispered, not quite angry but not entirely pleased, either. Before Alfred could give his answer of 'making sure that you're not hurt, love of my life and twinkle of my stars; you're welcome', the Brit 'shushed' him and spoke into the telephone.

"Yes, I...that sounds fine. I mean, I'm not sure if- well, if you could stop talking over- we _could_...I don't know, I'm not him! Why don't _you _ask if you're so curious? That's what I thought. As I was- mmm...yes? I didn't ask, necessarily; I said that I wou- Sure, sure, right. Ok- I'll ask him. We'll- yes, we'll finalize things tomorrow. Mmm-hmm, right. Alright. Yes, goodnight."

With a huff, Arthur placed the phone back to its dock. He turned to Alfred and sighed. "What _are_ you doing?" he asked again, a small smile on his face (probably because the dirty blond looked like such an idiot), despite his obvious exasperation. He tilted his head and stared, his green eyes both tired but entirely curious and...excited? Maybe, but probably not. Alfred took a gulp of air, almost hating the nervousness that bubbled inside of him.

"I was just checking on you," America mumbled under his breath. England smiled in response. "Are you alright?"

A small nod. "Yes, I'm fine. Alfred, would you mind following me to the library?"

Alfred sucked in a sharp breath. The library was never a good sign. It was the place that Arthur always beckoned him to when they were going to have a long, thorough discussion that usually involved one of Alfred's mistakes. He couldn't exactly deny the request, but he certainly wasn't fond of the idea, either. America nodded and followed England's quiet footsteps.

The library was old, filled with way too many books that Alfred could never hope to read; he strongly suspected that Arthur had read every single one of them three times over. When someone was as old as England was (not that he looked it at all), one had time to read four-thousand and seventy-three books three times over.

Both men took their seats in old armchairs. They were a burgundy sort of color, and Alfred actually liked them when he wasn't sitting in one to await his punishment. He frowned when England crossed his leg over his knee and sigh deeply. The sigh was _never _a good sign. It meant that Arthur had had time to think a matter through, to properly dissect an entire conversation that was almost guaranteed to happen. Aside from his claims that he could perform magic, this ability of the Brit's was the most powerful thing that Alfred had ever been allowed to see.

"Alfred, I just got off the phone with my government.."

His pulse quickened.

"And they told me something. About us."

Goosebumps rose on his forearms.

"I don't even know how to go about this, really."

Was it starting to get _really _hot in here? Because Alfred was fairly certain that the gates of Hell had opened up and had created a window in this Georgian library. He breathed deeply.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is, for lack of a better term. And altogether this is going to sound quite impossible, but I promise that it's happened before. To me, not to you. Of course, maybe it _has _happened to you, and I'm just not aware of the fact. In which case, I'd love to know now, instead of a hundred years into the future. I mean, _I'm _planning to still be with you in a hundred years. We're married, after all. But if this sort of thing makes you want to jump ship now, then as a former pirate, I give you no permission to do so. We are in it for the long haul, and you got yourself into this mess."

Now Alfred was more confused than scared. Then again, the "long haul" part sort of brought the fear factor back on full-force.

"Frankly, it _is _your fault. You're the one who boasts yourself as a world leader. I mean it's your fault I'm-"

Sick, dying, merging with France (_ohpleaseno_)?

"Babe?"

"Pregnant."

There were a few tense seconds in which Alfred couldn't tell if he had heard the wrong thing, or if England was punking him, or if he just wanted to hear this so badly that his mind took "merging with France" and made it "pregnant." But Arthur was biting his lip, and he looked nervous, which he shouldn't be if he _were _pregnant. Because that was the best news that America had heard _ever_.

"What?"

The question was so soft and so tentative that Alfred couldn't quite believe that it had come from his mouth. But it had, and Arthur smiled hesitantly, and his eyes were _so_ green in that moment.

"Yes. That was what the phone call was about. Of course, if you _don't _want to involve your government in the funding of a new country, you could call in, and they could absolve the whole thing. I wouldn't-"

Arthur would have kept talking for forever if Alfred hadn't cut him off with his lips on the other's. They kissed, and England relaxed into it all, and America smiled despite the shaky nervousness that had suddenly taken over him. "I want this. So much." There was a pause, and the realization came soon after. "I'm gonna be a dad, Britain. I'm gonna be a dad, and- and you are, too, and he-slash-she is going to be so _awesome_, because we are, and he-slash-she is gonna be so happy. I promise you they will be. I do."

America was nowhere _near_ ready for a baby. In nine months, maybe, but not now; he just didn't realize it yet. And after this euphoric moment would pass (two weeks later), Alfred would nearly cry with frustration because he was too stupid to be bringing another life into this world; for now, though, he was probably the happiest person alive.

"You know it won't be easy. There are things you have to pay, and so much paperwork to fill out now, and I'm going to be completely awful sometimes."

"I'm gonna be a dad."

Realizing that this epiphany was not going to leave the head of the American for a good hour or so, England stood up, examined the rows of book shelves for a good eight minutes (give or take) before picking out a delightful read, walked over to his husband, placed a quick kiss to Alfred's cheek, and bid him a goodnight. If he were lucky, America wouldn't move for another half an hour, giving him just enough time to read himself to sleep.

Forty minutes later, Alfred finally snapped himself out of his reverie and found Arthur asleep in their box spring bed. Four months from now, the Brit was probably going to ask for a new mattress, something that wouldn't make his back hurt so badly, and America would cave in an instant.

Arthur's book was lying on the bedside table, the one with the fire hazard of a lamp. Eventually, Alfred would demand that they get rid of that thing, because he wasn't going to let a _light bulb _burn down their new baby's home; Arthur would agree simply to get some more sleep.

The telephone was in the hallway. And, naturally, America sent up a silent 'thank-you' to Alexander Graham Bell. Telephones weren't always good. They were notorious for bring heartbreak to families; and they used to destroy Internet connections (a bitterness that Alfred could never find in himself to get over); and, yes, they were especially loud in three in the morning. They gave news that people weren't ready for (like a new baby); but they also gave the most amazing, life-changing news (like a new baby).

That telephone, Alfred decided, gave him a perfect future. It had to be good for something.

That and, he reasoned as he quietly stepped out of his bedroom and into the hallway where the old telephone sat on its little table, telephones were pretty good for waking up his friends at _four _in the morning to tell them the good news.


End file.
